


when i kissed the teacher

by anomalousity, thermocline



Series: various drabbles [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, M/M, Teacher Bucky, hot dad steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermocline/pseuds/thermocline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All right, and what’s due next week?”</p><p>Bucky grins when the children reply in unison, “Our family trees, Mr. Barnes!” He gives them an appraising smile before turning back to his desk and picking up the pile of graded spelling tests resting beneath his tumbler.</p><p>“Right,” he says, shuffling the papers and making to pass them down each row. The chorus sings with equal shouts of glee and groans of disappointment, but the same as always, the little girl who always scores the highest tucks her paper away and folds her hands on her desk.</p><p>She’s a strange one, but she’s keeping him ranked second in the state for elementary school aptitudes. Not only that, but she’s actually interested in the course material; he gives her Harry Potter, Eragon, and now Lord of the Rings, and she’s still unstoppable. He’d have thought it impossible for a second grader, but she’s proving him wrong with each passing day.</p><p>Additionally, and completely unrelated, her father is gorgeous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be continued as per request.
> 
> if you'd like to request things, i prefer that you contact me via [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu/mssg).

“All right, and what’s due next week?”

Bucky grins when the children reply in unison, “Our family trees, Mr. Barnes!” He gives them an appraising smile before turning back to his desk and picking up the pile of graded spelling tests resting beneath his tumbler.

“Right,” he says, shuffling the papers and making to pass them around the circle. The chorus sings with equal shouts of glee and groans of disappointment, but the same as always, the little girl who always scores the highest tucks her paper away and folds her hands on her desk.

She’s a strange one, but she’s keeping him ranked second in the state for private school elementary school aptitudes. Not only that, but she’s actually interested in the course material; he gives her Harry Potter, Eragon, and now Lord of the Rings, and she’s still unstoppable. He’d have thought it impossible for a six year old, but she’s proving him wrong with each passing day.

Additionally, and completely unrelated, her father is gorgeous.

Bucky barely remembers what the conference was even about, only that the man had no damn right to look so good and be married. A simple glance would tell anyone that he and his daughter Maggie are blood.

He tries to clear his thoughts of the man as the children filter out of the classroom in as single file a line as six, seven, eight, and nine-year-olds can manage. All of one student remains in the room by the time the buses leave.

“Is your father coming to pick you up, Maggie?” Bucky asks, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. When she nods, he grins. “Want to go wait outside? I need to talk with him about a couple things.”

She nods again, and makes to grab her things. Bucky follows suit as quickly as he can manage and darts out of the room after her, hoping he doesn’t come off as too eager to see who has to be the hottest guy in the entirety of lower New York.

They’re just pushing out of the doors when Maggie sprints ahead and wraps her arms around her father’s waist.

“Daddy!”

He scoops her up and presses a kiss to her forehead before brushing her hair back. “Hey bug,” he says. After a moment, his eyes shift up to Bucky’s. “Uh, hey Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky almost snorts at the use of the honorific, but he quells it in favor of a small smile and, “Please, Bucky’s just fine.”

The man nods. “All right, then call me Steve.”

Well, at least ‘Steve Rogers’ is better than ‘Mr. Rogers’ as Bucky’s been calling him in his head. The guy is the exact opposite of the creepy old man from the show. Hell, Bucky’d actually _like_ to spend time in this Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, especially the, uh, lesser known parts of it.

Jesus Christ, he needs to calm down.

“So what was it that you needed?” Steve asks. After a moment, his face falls and his cheeks go damn near scarlet. “Aw, shit, I didn’t mean for it to sound like-”

Bucky shakes his head, grinning. “Nah, don’t worry about it.” The blush is still there and still extremely distracting, but he steels himself. “I was actually thinking about asking if I could enter Maggie into a program for up and coming scientists.” He doesn’t mention that it’d put her in high school when she should be starting the sixth grade, but small luxuries always do the soul a little good.

He watches as Steve glances down to his daughter, only turning his focus back onto Bucky when she smiles that tiny, knowing smile she seems to like so much.

“Okay, yeah, she’d like that.” Steve drops her back onto her feet, taking her hand in his own and running his fingers through his hair. He ducks his eyes to his toes for a moment before glancing back up at Bucky from under his lashes. “You know, most teachers don’t put this much effort into making sure a student succeeds.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not most teachers, and Maggie’s about as smart as they come.”

Truthfully, his motivations are a little selfish; he likes being the guy responsible for feeding the only kid in the school whose IQ is bigger than his own with knowledge. He likes watching the other members of the school’s faculty flail in efforts to get her into their classrooms. He likes knowing that she’s doing so well because Bucky knows not to prevent her from learning whatever she wants.

‘Course, he’s learning a few things on his own. One can’t just expect to teach freshman level Chemistry without a refresher.

Steve’s smiling that earnest grin that has Bucky’s legs going numb. “Thanks, Bucky. Really,” he says, brushing his fingers through the longer blond strands of hair towards the crown of his head. Bucky briefly considers knotting his own fingers into the strands, but quickly brushes the thought away.

“It’s no problem.”

He’s about to turn around when he feels a warm hand on his bicep. He glances over his shoulder to see Steve blushing hard, but his eyes are determined.

He looks determined, that is, until he starts speaking and his eyes drop to the concrete. “I was wondering if maybe…” He trails off into a mumble, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Wondering if maybe?”

Bucky spins on his heel and appraises Steve with what he hopes doesn’t look too much like a smirk. He knows his body well, and if the way his hips are pushing out just slightly, and the way he can feel his lower lip jutting into even more of a pout than usual are anything to go by, Bucky’s going to have a problem in all of three seconds.

Thankfully, that’s when Steve says, “Let me get you dinner.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I’m taking you to dinner.” There’s nothing but conviction in Steve’s tone. He must not be used to rejection; hell, he might not be used to asking people out in broad daylight, not to mention on the grounds of an elementary school.

So, Bucky bites. “Oh yeah?” he asks, chewing on his lip a little and liking the way Steve takes a deep breath at the gesture. “When are you planning on doing this?”

“Friday?”

He looks like he’s about to faint, or shit himself, or _something_ , so Bucky gives in and takes a step forwards, nervously settling a hand in the crook of Steve’s elbow.

“I like Thai,” he says. When Steve brightens up like the freaking sun, it’s all Bucky can do to swallow. He shakes his head and quells a blush before continuing. “You have my phone number. Call me and I’ll give you my address.”

Steve nods again, and his eyes dart to Maggie, who’s making her way down the sidewalk and towards the bench. When he looks back up to Bucky, his smile is enough to convince Bucky to take a careless step forward and push a timid kiss onto his cheek.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t expect Steve’s arms to hold him in. He just stands there, sort of dazedly if he’s being honest, and does his best impression of a fish out of water. Steve doesn’t seem to care, however, not when his lips blanket over Bucky’s and pull away just as quickly.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “James Barnes?” Steve replies, still staring at him in disbelief. “Did you used to go by James?”
> 
> Bucky shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “The Sisters always called me that to get on my ass about being a ‘hooligan’ or some shit. Why?”
> 
> “You were the…” Steve’s cheeks go a little pink, before his whole face flares bright red. “You were my first.”
> 
> “First what?”
> 
> It takes Bucky all of three seconds to figure out that 1) he’s a dumbass. 2) Steve’s gotten a whole lot bigger since he was sixteen. And 3) he’s on a date with the guy he’s spent a solid five years pining for after he was kicked out and sent off to college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I got a request to continue this verse, as I was expecting, and it turned out extremely sappy. So, I'm guessing this is probably going to be an ongoing sort of thing, and as such, I'd like feedback on how it progresses. So, if you could leave comments that'd be great because I'm sort of bad at this whole writing thing. 
> 
> Also, if you want to request a verse, AU, or a fic in general, feel free to ask through [my tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu/mssg).

Bucky pats down his jeans once more as he looks at himself in the mirror.

Jesus, why did he agree to this? There’s got to be a rule against dating your student’s dad; even if that student has an _extremely_ hot dad. He tugs at his hair until it’s nothing more than a tousled mess and glares at his reflection, folding his arms over his chest and harrumphing because he can.

Natasha chooses that moment to push into his bedroom and scowl at him. “What the hell are you doing?” she asks when he slings off his button up and digs through his dresser until he finds a crappy Ramones t-shirt.

“What’s it look like,” Bucky replies. “Goin’ fishing?”

She snorts and walks over to his dresser before rifling through the articles of clothing until she tosses a dark cashmere sweater at his head. He dodges the dark green corduroy pants she launches at him next, but wrinkles his nose at her taste.

He receives a shrug in response. “You look good in old men’s clothes.”

“Those are my clothes.”

“My point, moron,” she bites back. He sighs and kicks out of his jeans before reaching for the corduroys and pulling the sweater over his head. When he turns back to Natasha, she grins at him and winks before disappearing through the door and he sighs again before turning to the mirror.

He’ll give her props about him looking good in ‘old men’s clothes’. He does look good, like _really_ good. Even the whole bed head thing he’s got going on sort of works with the ensemble and he debates grabbing his glasses before deciding that he’ll look like an English major fresh out of college, which he supposes he still sort of is, and decides he looks fine.

He sprits on some cologne and tucks himself into a leather jacket before heading into the living room and glaring daggers at the front door until his phone buzzes.

“Hello?” he asks, grinning when Steve replies that he’s waiting outside. “Okay, I’ll be out in a second.”

Bucky makes sure to check his appearance one last time before sprinting into the cool air and into the car waiting on his driveway. He grins when he catches the soft notes of Modest Mouse wafting out of the radio, never having pegged Steve as one to be into anything other than hard rock.

It gets him a shrug. “What, it’s calming.”

“Sure it is, buddy,” Bucky says. He snuggles into the warm, leather seat. “So, where are we going, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve smirks. “It’s a surprise, Mr. Barnes.”

And with that cryptic reply, Bucky decides to act on all of his twenty-seven years and stick his tongue out before collapsing into a fit of giggles. He knows Steve is rolling his eyes; hell, he’s probably cursing the day he asked the illustrious James Buchanan Barnes on a date.

Of course, he hopes not. That would be kind of awkward.

So, he forces himself to calm down and breathe out a sigh through his teeth. Evidently, not dating for a couple years isn’t really good for being seductive and mysterious and all of that Cosmo bullshit. He finds himself willing his leg to stop shaking, his hands to stop twitching.

It doesn’t work, and Steve notices. “Are we okay?” he asks, looking like he’s totally prepared to pull the car over and let Bucky have what appears to be becoming a panic attack.

He nods his head. “Yeah, we’re okay,” he replies. “It’s just, uh, been a while. Grad school, teaching, and grading papers don’t really make for an avid social life.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, having a kid will do a real number on your social life too.” After a pause, however, his face softens and a dopey smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t change it for the world, though.”

“Me neither,” Bucky replies, tugging on a strand of his hair.

The rest of the drive is quiet. Bucky notices when they take the turnoff onto the Manhattan Bridge that they’re going downtown. Steve weaves through back roads effortlessly, as though driving through evening traffic on a Friday night in lower Manhattan is a cakewalk. Well, for him it might be; it seems like the guy is pretty capable at most things.

It’s only when they’re pulling through Soho that Bucky realizes they’re going somewhere fancy. Really, really, like celebrity fancy. He shoots a worried glance at Steve, who just smiles and shakes his head.

They end up parking across the street from a hotel, streams of people surging through the front doors, the loud thrum of bass throbbing below Bucky’s feet. He climbs out of the car hesitantly, looking to Steve for confirmation that this is indeed the place.

When Steve’s fingers knot with his own, he relaxes, marginally.

“This is,” he breathes, unable to come up with an adjective that would describe the place. Thankfully, Steve seems to understand what he was getting at and drags them both into the lower level, the sound of loud music mingling with the babbling voices of Manhattan’s socialites.

He feels out of place in his pseudo-hipster ensemble. Steve even is dressed to the nines in a well-tailored charcoal vest with a deep blue button up. Hell, Bucky finds himself ogling the guy for a moment before a shrill voice draws him from said ogling.

“Reservation?” the woman standing behind a small podium asks.

Steve smiles and replies, “Rogers,” to the woman, who’s cheeks have gone a little peachy. Admittedly, so have Bucky’s, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of possessiveness when her gaze slips down his front.

“Of course,” she murmurs, her voice mildly less annoying. She spares a glance at Bucky and gestures for them to follow her. “You’re in the penthouse this evening, correct?”

Bucky turns to Steve, mouthing ‘penthouse’ before Steve rolls his eyes and replies in the affirmative. They’re lead through a series of chambers and into an elevator, coming to a stop at a quieter floor with artistic décor.

The tables are set close to the floor, small pillows outlining them and lanterns hanging low. Steve almost knocks his head on one, much to Bucky’s amusement, but when Bucky runs face first into three in a row, he just snickers.

They settle into a small table facing the city. Bucky stares in wonderment, completely uncaring that the woman is handing him his menu. Tall skeletal buildings arch into the skyline, rainbow lights decorating the New York landscape. He hears Steve sigh and place an order for wine, but he can only gaze on, unabashed.

“It’s beautiful, huh?”

Bucky snaps out of it, turning to glance over at Steve. “That’s an understatement.” He scrubs his fingers through his hair, feeling almost bashful when he realizes that this is the first time he’s been in a place so elegant. Steve’s probably frequented this place, if not restaurants like this place, hundreds of times, going by the ease with which he holds himself.

A waiter comes by to drop off their wine and Bucky’s eyes hone in on the bottle. He looks to Steve with a wry grin. “1921?” he asks, gesturing towards the bottle. “Stevie, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“What can I say, I’m a charmer.”

Bucky snorts, and reaches for the bottle, doling out the fragrant liquid into both of their glasses before smirking over at his date. “That you are,” he says before taking a sip. When he does, he almost cries. “Jesus fucking Christ, this is good.”

He downs the whole glass in a matter of gulps before refilling it. He takes his time with the second, letting the buzz set in as he watches Steve across the table. He looks like he’d be new money; the way he carries himself is Brooklyn boy through and through. Maybe he’s a genius of some sort? A really hot, really muscular genius with a great ass and dry wit.

“So,” Bucky says, not really finding it in him to quell his curiosity. “What do you do, Steve?”

Steve shrugs. “I write.”

Oh, that’s somewhat unexpected. Though, his hands are obviously not used to hard labor or engineering, Bucky would have pegged him as an artist or a musician first. “Anything I’ve read?” he asks.

Steve’s eyes dart to the corner of the table before he nervously fiddles with his fingers. “Maybe,” he replies. “I’m not that good, but some people seem to like it.”

It would explain the wealth, if Bucky was right about the humility. ‘Some people’ probably equate to a New York Times Best Seller worthy crowd, and Bucky finds himself more and more curious. He lets it drop when the waiter returns, picking up their orders and making a quick retreat.

They talk about nothing, and they talk about everything. Steve’s a shy guy, reluctant to give himself any form of praise regarding his looks, his wit, his _anything_. Bucky learns that Steve’s an orphan, like him, and, as he suspected, a Brooklyn boy.

“From DUMBO?” he asks, raising his brows. When Steve’s head bobs yes, Bucky feels his face crack open in a grin. “I was at St John’s on Third 'til I turned seventeen!”

Steve’s eyes widen slowly, like he’s trying his best to rein in some wicked disbelief. After a moment, he tilts his head and examines Bucky with a surgeon’s observation. “No fucking way,” he says after a moment, spine straightening.

“What?”

“ _James_ Barnes?” Steve replies, still staring at him in disbelief. “Did you used to go by James?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “The Sisters always called me that to get on my ass about being a ‘hooligan’ or some shit. Why?”

“You were the…” Steve’s cheeks go a little pink, before his whole face flares bright red. “You were my first.”

“First what?”

It takes Bucky all of three seconds to figure out that 1) he’s a dumbass. 2) Steve’s gotten a whole lot bigger since he was sixteen. And 3) he’s on a date with the guy he’s spent a solid five years pining for after he was kicked out and sent off to college.

“No fucking way,” Bucky echoes, staring at Steve like he’s never seen him before. He’s surprised he didn’t catch on it right away; the smile is the same, the puffy lips and the sharp cheekbones. It’s just more filled out, less gaunt and pale. He’s still handsome as fuck though, just less pretty. Scratch that, he’s just as pretty, just a bit more beefed out. “You’ve had one hell of a growth spurt there, Steve.”

He gets a kick to the shins in reply, but otherwise Steve says nothing. The waiter returns with their food and questions of whether they’d like anything more. Bucky answers for the pair of them, smiling when the guy’s eyes dart to Steve’s shell shocked form.

They pick at their food in disinterest, though if Bucky’s honest it looks amazing. Steve looks more amazing; he _knows_ he’s more amazing. Nothing beats the one that got away.

He hesitates a moment before breaking the silence. “Remember when I blew you on Dum Dum’s sheets?”

Steve’s cheeks go peachy again, before he’s holding in giggles. “Oh my God,” he says. “He almost killed us.” And it’s true; Dum Dum may not have looked threatening with the stupid Bowler hat or the way he carried himself with an almost gentlemanly regard, but he could throw a damn good right hook.

“And when we screwed on Morita’s chair?”

“He threatened to castrate you, Bucky.”

Bucky shrugs. “He wouldn’t have done it,” he replies. After a moment, he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and shifts his gaze to his knees. “Remember when you said you loved me on Fifth and Abbott?”

Steve nods his head after a moment. “Yeah, and you said it back a week later.”

He did, and he said it in front of everyone. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have. He was old enough to be sent away, but not old enough to manage a life on his own. The church hadn’t yet actively proclaimed being pro-gay rights, but Bucky didn’t care at the time. It was the truest thing he knew, the scrawny weight of his best friend/whatever it was that Steve was to him pressed flush against his chest, whispering promises of buying an apartment in San Francisco as soon as Bucky turned eighteen.

That wasn’t what happened, but Bucky used to think what it would mean if it had.

He takes a sip of wine before glancing back up to Steve. “I didn’t want to leave, you know.”

Steve sighs. “I know,” he replies. “It still hurt.”

It did. It still _hurts_ and Bucky still regrets opting for a public proclamation of his feelings and, inadvertently, of his sexuality. Of course the boys knew, of course the Sisters knew, of course the whole damn West Side knew, but it didn’t stop Bucky from wanting to belt out from the rooftops that he loved Steven Grant Rogers with everything he had.

He swipes his thumb at a droplet of red sneaking down the side of the glass. Most of the crowd has disappeared from the lounge, leaving him and Steve and another couple towards the center of the room. It’s awkwardly quiet, and Bucky cringes at the way he can hear his own heart beat fluttering in his chest.

It hiccups when Steve’s fingers brush over his knuckles.

Bucky glances up to find Steve wearing a tentative smile, his other hand fiddling with the hair that hangs in his eyes just like he used to do all of ten years ago. After a moment, he breathes out a sigh and leans across the table to press a chaste kiss to Bucky’s lower lip. When he pulls away, his eyes are cautiously optimistic.

“Hey, Buck,” he murmurs, swiping is thumb over the soft skin at Bucky’s wrist, his pulse hammering at the contact. “Wanna try again?”

And if Bucky can say no to that face, he’d be another man. So he smiles before leaning forward and recapturing Steve’s lips with his own. When he pulls away, hardly a centimeter, he smirks against Steve’s mouth.

“You bet your ass I do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Bucky's days are bizarre. Today would be one of those days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any updates or information regarding this fic can be found on my [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu). If you have any questions, feel free to ask there, or just send me a comment here and I'll try to answer you as soon as possible.
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated!

Whoever picked the sound of an alarm has a special place in Hell.

Bucky groans, rolling on his bed as he glances at the clock. 5:32. He sighs, trying to become one with the bed and truly live up to his potential as a bum. It doesn’t work; not ten minutes later Nat walks into his room and sits on his back.

Bucky would totally enjoy killing her. “Ge’ off me,” he grumbles.

“Come on,” she bites back, wriggling on top of him. She pokes him just under his ribs, right where she knows he’ll twitch. “Don’t you want to stay in shape for your new boyfriend?” She sounds absolutely ravenous.

“’s not my boyfriend.”

Her smirk is practically audible. “Not yet, but he will be.” She slides off his back and settles in beside him. “What did he say to you? Oh mysterious Steve shows up from the past and asks his teenage sweetheart if he’d like to be sweethearts again?”

Bucky groans again and buries his face in his pillow, now trying in earnest to either smother himself or get eaten by the mattress. Neither of those happens, of course, because the universe has this wonderful way of saving a special ‘fuck you’ for James Barnes.

So, he rolls out of bed and tugs off his shirt, kicks off his boxers, not really caring if Natasha’s there or not. It’s not like it’s anything she hasn’t seen; it took him all of three weeks of dating his best friend to realize that not only is he not bisexual with a strong tendency towards men, his tendencies are men exclusively.

It was a strange awakening, at the very least.

He finds a pair of running shorts strewn haphazardly across the floor, and pulls them on without really checking if they’re clean. Then he pulls on a Stones shirt, plucks his Chucks of the floor, and sprints out the door. Evidently, he needs to find a new way to shake Nat off, however, because it takes her all of three seconds for her to be trotting at his side with that little smirk on her lips.

They get to the river before he kicks up his speed and, as subtly as he can manage, asks, “What?”

Her eyes are too wide to be innocent. “What do you mean what?” she asks, lips turned down in a perfect parabola; she’s the picture of feigned disinterest and mock curiosity.

“I swear to God, Nat, if you’re doing this just to make me dream of all the reasons why I should have said no when you offered to drink me under the table-”

“Are you going to go through with it?” she interrupts.

Bucky’s footsteps stutter to a stop. The air is salty with the tang of the Atlantic breezing in from the east. It’s not a pleasant smell, but Bucky’s gotten used to it from years of exposure. He glances to the river, wrinkling his nose at the muck lurking below the flawless inky black surface.

There’s a bench not too far away from them. He could walk over there, could sit Nat down and explain all of the reasons he shouldn’t go through with Steve, despite him saying he would; he could do all of those things, but he doesn’t move an inch.

Instead, he turns to face Natasha and nods.

She seems to be expecting it, like she always seems to be expecting everything. It’s a quality that suits someone of her jurisdiction. Lawyers are smart, calculating, manipulative, predictable. Prosecutors are trained to pick up on quirks and ticks, target the left field questions. If anyone can target a left field question, or something that doesn’t even seem to be in the ball park, it’s Natasha.

“I think you should be careful,” she murmurs. “And I don’t think you should get your hopes up. He has a daughter?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies.

“Then he’s been married, or at the very least he’s had a relationship that was serious enough for him to stick around for a kid.” She brushes her fingers through her hair, now worn in a soft braid trailing down her neck. “I know he was something special, Bucky, but he was something special a long time ago.”

A decade is a long time, even if a decade ago Bucky was running faster than the wind and searching for grandparents he didn’t know existed. He found them, thankfully, but there was always the risk of them being bums or druggies or worse. When he found out they were two nice old women from Minneapolis, he couldn’t have been prouder.

Bucky had a lot to think about in a decade, like how he was going to meet people aside from Steve. Which he did; he’s met Natasha, but even more than her. He’s had experience with good and bad, with Matt and Aleksander. He’s proud that he’s gay, just as he’s proud to have loved the people he loved.

Aside from Aleksander. That wasn’t love.

Regardless, he knows what he’s getting into and Natasha knows that he knows. He’ll take precautions just like he always does.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Natasha’s. He glances towards the Starbucks at the corner of Seventh. “If I win you’re buying,” he mutters before taking off.

Natasha can drink a lot of coffee when she knows she doesn’t have to pay.

His nose is wrinkled as he reads the paper, sipping at his frou-frou coffee because he’s a grown ass man who’ll order a strawberry and crème Frappuccino with soy milk if he damn well pleases. There’s nothing particularly positive; more robberies, more murders, more endless New York toil.

It’s not until he finds a picture in the features column that he really reads.

“Author Steven Rogers,” he begins. “Known for his works, _Red Chaos_ and _The Winter Soldier_ will be hosting a meet and greet at the Tribeca Barnes and Noble on October twenty-seventh.”

He peers up at Natasha with a smirk; knowing the names of Steve’s books means being able to read Steve’s books.  He wiggles his eyebrows and smirks at his friend, giggling when she rolls her eyes and sips at her boring coffee and calls him an idiot.

It’s too easy to let excitement take over. “But Nat,” he says. “What if he’s written something with references to me? What if I’m a character?”

“You’re probably a character,” she says, but she sounds like she’s humoring him.

“Fuck off,” he replies cheerfully.

They leave shortly after that, what with Bucky’s having to be at school in approximately an hour and Natasha’s impending pile of case briefs. He doesn’t envy her in the slightest; he’s seen the monster in her room, and it isn’t pretty.

Dressing for class is easy, he never has to impress anyone with fancy suits or attractive, form fitting jeans. He gets to wear sweaters and what he’s proudly coined ‘dad clothes’. Yeah, he’s not a dad, but he’s going to bathe in the benefits of being one.

He’s out the door and in the subway in a matter of minutes, aimlessly scrolling through his twitter feed and shamelessly stalking tags about Steve’s books and Steve himself. Apparently, he’s quite the hottie, according to the most attentive critics. He’s, as stated by an anonymous blog only labelled “The Avid Critique”, simply ravishing.

Bucky’s going to save that comment if only for blackmail.

Even the walk to school is uplifting. He whistles as he climbs the subway steps, even hums a little as he pushes into the school and finds his classroom. It’s only when he settles into his chair and stares at the ten wide eyes staring back at him that things start to sour.

It starts with a stain, as most things reeking of shit do.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca murmurs, hand fisted at the hem of Bucky’s sweater. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bucky sighs. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he replies. It doesn’t change the fact that there’s a screaming eight-year-old clinging to his leg and yelling for his dad. “But you shouldn’t call kids names, especially if it’s for something he can’t control.”

“But he just peed himself!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “And so have you, I’m sure,” he replies, quelling the urge to fist bump the air when she shuts right up. He turns to look at Rodrigo, who’s still sobbing up a storm and still staining Bucky’s pants with pee as he furtively adheres himself to Bucky’s waking form.

Why he ever thought to teach elementary, he doesn’t know.

“Mr. Barnes?” a quiet voice asks from the back. He looks up and finds Maggie watching him with those too intelligent eyes. “I can go get the nurse. She has extra clothes in her office.”

He nods. “Thanks Maggie.”

Rodrigo looks like he’s content to sit there sobbing on Bucky’s leg, but Bucky has class to teach. Or attempt to teach. He crouches down, gently prying himself from the kid’s oddly strong hold. “Hey,” he murmurs, poking his cheek. “Rodrigo, look at me.”

It comes with a wobbly chin and watery eyes, but he does look at Bucky.

“You know,” he says. “When I was in second grade, I had an accident too.” It’s bullshit; he would’ve been eaten alive by the boys at the orphanage if he did anything of the sort. “But you know what?”

He waits until Rodrigo asks what before continuing.

“I stopped crying because I knew it would make my papa sad.” Bucky doesn’t know who his dad is, aside from a name and a picture. “And I didn’t want to make my papa sad, because then it might’ve made him cry. Do you want your papa to be sad, Rodrigo?” He asks it in the least threatening way possible.

When Rodrigo shakes his head no, Bucky smiles and holds out his hands to help him up. “I thought not,” he says. “Let’s get you changed.”

Maggie comes back not five minutes later with a pair of sweats in her arms, and he sends her back to the classroom with promises of a reward. Rodrigo gets himself cleaned up and changed without problem and Bucky makes sure to give him one of the candies he keeps in the ‘good students’ bucket he has on top of his file cabinet before sending him back to his seat.

The rest of the school day continues without incident.

When dismissal bell rings, the students are all too eager to evacuate the premises, excepting Maggie, but Bucky is more than used to her staying after. He settles in for a wait for her father when the book signing pops back into his thoughts.

“Hey Maggie?”

She looks up from her sketch book. “Yes, Mr. Barnes?”

“Is your dad coming to get you today or is one of your nannies?” She looks confused by the question so he elaborates. “I need to ask him something.”

She nods her head, as though expecting that, and smiles. “Can I call you Bucky now that you’re dating my dad?” she asks, wide innocent eyes sparking in the fluorescent lighting.

Wait, that’s not innocence. It’s the same sharpness as he expects in Natasha; that’s calculating coldness.

He leans back in his chair, trying to look unassuming as he asks, “What makes you think I’m dating your dad?”

“He said you went with him to a fancy restaurant,” she replies. “And that he wants to kiss you and that I should be grateful to have you as a teacher because you are amazing.” After a beat, her smile turns conniving. “But I’m paraphrasing.”

“How the hell do you even know what paraphrasing is, you’re like seven.”

“I’ll be seven in three weeks.”

Bucky frowns. “Has anyone ever told you you’re too smart for your own good?”

She folds her arms across her chest, tilting her head. “All the time.”

He mimics her position and leans on his desk. Bucky knows he shouldn’t be pissed that his intelligence is being challenged by a kid who just got out of her fucking diapers, but for fuck’s sake, he kind of is. So, he lets his mind wander to something obscure that she, hopefully, won’t know about.

“So would you be able to tell me about Russian history dating from the early twentieth century to the end of World War Two?” he asks, half wishing that she knows the answer so he can be credited with a damn Nobel Prize sometime in the future.

He’s not disappointed. “It was a period of reform and refractory economic development,” she begins. She twirls her blond hair around her pointer fingers as she thinks. “Socialism starts to become the preferred system of economics and government, leading to unrest among high political powers. There was a small war with Japan, I think,” she pauses to look at him for approval. He nods. Satisfied, she continues. “And after that there was Trotsky, with his hopeful policy, then Lenin and World War One, the end of the Romanov dynasty, Stalin’s takeover, and then World War Two?”

Bucky is… impressed. He scrubs his thumb over his chin, briefly remarking that he should have shaved, but didn’t, before smiling with a tidbit of his own.

“Did you know that during the Cold War, the KGB recruited ballerinas as assassins?” he asks with a smile. Jesus, he should not be telling a child about esteemed murderers.

Maggie shakes her head, looking up at him expectantly.

He sighs, knowing he’s going to regret telling Steve’s kid about what Natasha’s informed him of her youth. “It only ended about fifteen years ago,” he says. “They would take little girls from their homes, sometimes little boys too, and they’d be trained in martial arts, languages, computer software, weaponry, you name it, and they’d master it. They were the scariest fu- people around, and no one wanted to mess with them.”

Maggie nods. “People don’t expect those they think of as weak to be scary.”

Bucky’s about to make a comment on her being too damn wise for her age as well when there’s a soft knock at the door and both of them glance away to find Steve standing in the doorway. Bucky grins when he finds his wide, toothy smile pinned on his daughter. After a moment, he redirects it to Bucky.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he says.

Maggie fucking giggles, and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like he was interrupting the gears turning in Bucky’s head, and Bucky has to quell an urge to give detentions to kids who voluntarily stay after school. Instead, he just makes his grin a little sharper and folds his hands on his desk.

And then, the books come back to the forefront of his thoughts. “Oh,” he gasps. “I need to pick something up.” It’s more to himself than it is to Steve, but he knows Steve hears him.

“Pick what up?”

“A couple books.”

Steve still has some ridiculous side eye game, but Bucky’s a master of deflecting anything too degrading or invasive. Years of experience with Natasha has taught him that barriers are important, and he should always use them.

So he shrugs. “Just wanted to catch up on my reading.”

Steve still looks like he doesn’t believe him, but he lets the comment pass with a raised eyebrow. It takes all of five minutes for Maggie to get her things back into her backpack and for Steve to murmur ridiculously intimate goodbyes before asking if Bucky’s free for the weekend.

“I’ll have to catch up on my grading at some point,” he replies. “But I should be. Why?”

He almost blanches when Steve leans over his desk and whispers that Maggie’s staying at her grandparents and that Bucky’s more than welcome to go over so they can have a movie marathon. Bucky tells himself it’s because of the offer of movies and food that he goes along with Steve’s plans without protest.

It definitely helped that he had hot breath and even hotter lips brushing over his earlobe when said movies and food were being offered.

“Just text me,” he breathes when Steve pulls away.

Steve just winks at him before nodding at Maggie. Bucky watches as they retreat from the classroom side by side, and sinks into his chair.

A whole fucking weekend; he can manage a weekend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes over to Steve's apartment.

The rest of the week passes in a blur; half of the class is out sick with a particularly nasty brand of the flu, and Bucky’s down to grading last week’s multiplication tests in between talking with overly concerned parents and making sure the unconcerned parents are aware of how to tend to their kid.

It’s slow, and it’s boring, but Bucky doesn’t really mind.

Before he knows it, the weekend is looming high and omnipresent over Bucky’s life. There’s a hot ball of molten something seeped into his consciousness and he can’t shake it. Not when Thursday blends into Friday, and definitely not when Friday becomes Friday night.

He’s sitting and watching his phone when Natasha conks him in the shoulder. “Relax,” she says before continuing on to the kitchen. He hears her grab something out of the fridge, and she returns with a couple beers in hand. She sets one in his lap and settles onto their couch beside him. “He’s probably just going to want to catch up.”

“But what if he wants to catch up and do other things?”

Natasha snorts around the lip of her bottle. “Is this what you were like in high school?” Her side eye is particularly vicious, and he finds himself wishing that instead of being born, he was manufactured as a pillow.

“No,” he replies, face a little hot. “I was probably worse.”

She snorts again, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she turns her eyes to the Giants-Patriots game. Of course the Patriots are winning, but they’ll end up losing. Bucky has faith in his teams. Or maybe he just doesn’t watch enough to give a shit.

They sit in companionable silence for what seems like an hour before Natasha stretches her legs over his lap and sighs into the cushions. “You know,” she murmurs. “You should be more worried about where he lives.”

“Why?” Bucky hadn’t given it much thought.

“He’s a writer?” she asks, staring at him until he nods his confirmation. “And he’s famous without being dead, so he’s probably wealthy.”

Bucky nods again. He figured as much when he was all but dragged into one of the fanciest restaurants in Manhattan as a first date. He’ll bet Steve lives in Soho, or even Carnegie Hill. It’s not like he doesn’t have the ability to.

So Bucky’s done some research; sue him.

He runs his hands over Natasha’s ankles. “I don’t really care that he has money,” he says. Then, with a smile, he continues, “Aren’t you the one who’s paying for most of this house? You’re rich too.”

She smirks. “I know, but I don’t have expectations or class.” She rolls her eyes at the last word before kicking her legs out of Bucky’s lap and running her fingers through her tousled hair. “And I don’t think Steve is going to either, but just-”

“I know, be careful.”

It gets him a growl and she kicks at his foot before pushing to her feet. He watches as she retreats to her room, emerging not two minutes later in a sleek little black dress with heels hanging from her fingers.

He raises a brow, and she resigns. “I have a date.”

“Oh yeah?” He can feel the Cheshire grin growing as her frown gets deeper. “Is it that blond deputy that you’ve been pining over since you started at county?”

Her frown has all but faded into a grimace and he leans into the couch with a satisfied grin. Before he can say anything else, she rolls her eyes and walks across the room to the bathroom. Bucky slumps into the cushions with a smile and changes the channel to something less stale.

The only thing on is The Notebook, so he settles in and watches mostly because Ryan Gosling, if he’s being completely honest with himself. Turns out, it’s a surprisingly good movie. It’s only when a hand settles onto his shoulder that he jolts out of his trance, and blinks up at Natasha.

“Don’t you have a date?” he asks, frowning up at her and making a gross noise. He doesn’t give a shit if he’s in sweats and is clinging to the couch out of sheer fear and loss as to what he’s doing tomorrow.

Her face tells him that she’s completely unsurprised and unimpressed. “Don’t you?” she asks right back, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Bucky turns in his seat to look up and down her slim frame and she looks… good. Really good. He’ll never understand Natasha’s ability to make her eyes so vividly green without putting on enough makeup to really make a difference. Her hair is affixed into this strange braid thing, curled into a little ball at the top of her head with delicate strands tucked back into her hair. She has her trademark red lipstick on, and her heels give her a good five inches.

In short, she looks _very_ good. “Damn, Nat,” he says with a smile. “You clean up nice.”

She frowns, but it dissipates when she stoops into a tiny curtsy. “Thanks,” she replies. “Don’t wait up for me; call Steve if he doesn’t call you first.”

He grimaces and turns away, hollering, “Safe sex is great sex!” over his shoulder with a smirk.

The click clack of heels across wooden flooring is all the indication he gets that she’s not going to dignify that with a response. Not that he blames her, of course, he just likes being an asshole.

Ryan Gosling’s character is spouting something about having to work at their relationship for the rest of their lives, because God knows summer flings last forever and ever. Bucky rolls his eyes and makes to turn off the television before he grabs his cell phone.

A message blinks up at him; he slides it open.

**< are you free?**

Bucky smirks, and types back his reply.

**> no**

**> i will be if you promise never to make me watch the notebook**

The message alert blinks almost immediately. Bucky has to stifle a snort when he reads the message.

**< are you watching the notebook, bucky?**

**> no**

**> maybe a little**

Steve takes a few minutes to reply, and when he does there’s a picture attachment. Bucky clinks the link, which opens up to a book in presumably Steve’s lap. He gets a thought, and before he can really quell it, his thumbs are flying over the touchpad.

**> nice book. wanna show me what’s under it?**

The reply comes quickly.

< **maybe if you come over you can find out yourself**

**> you’re on**

Bucky grins as he pushes his phone back onto the coffee table and sprints towards his room. He doesn’t have very much in the arena of fancy clothing, but he can still pass as a college student when he wants to, and he doesn’t mind wearing sweaters and skinny jeans and getting mistaken for a twenty year old.

That said, he collects his comfiest, least formal things and tosses them into his duffle before sprinting back into the living room and picking up his phone. His thumb hovers precariously over Steve’s number, but he steels himself and presses the button.

Steve answers after the third ring. “Bucky?”

“What’s your block?” Bucky asks, getting down to business.

“Sixty-sixth and Third,” Steve replies.

Bucky’s out the door before he can even say goodbye. He hugs his duffle close to his body as he all but jogs to the subway, nervously rakes his fingers through his hair as he taps his foot on the journey there. Unfortunately or fortunately for him, Lenox isn’t that close to DUMBO and he ends up deflecting at least four men and three women when they ask him if he’s down to get off the tracks for some fun.

He has to actively stop himself from shoving people out of his way when he gets out of the station and makes his way down the few blocks it takes to get to Sixty-sixth from this part of Third.

Eventually, he starts peeking at his phone. The message alert blinks up at him when he clicks the home button, and he opens the text to find Steve has taken off everything but the book. His footsteps falter as he types his reply.

**> i swear to fuck steve i’ll throttle you**

**> put on some boxers of something fucking**

**> I’ll be at yours in five**

He puts his phone back in his pocket and tries not to think about Steve’s tanned, bulked up legs. He tries his best not to compare them to Steve’s former, skinny and perpetually bruised legs. It doesn’t work; he’ll have to ask Steve how he got so damn big because shit like growing three quarters of a foot in a matter of a decade doesn’t just happen. Hell, Bucky doesn’t think he’s grown more than two inches since he was seventeen.

Steve has a fucking doorman.

“Uh,” Bucky stutters, kicking at the sidewalk. “I’m here to see Steve Rogers?”

The doorman smiles at him and asks him his name. When Bucky gives him it in full, the man lets Bucky in and tells him Steve’s on the twelfth floor. At least it’s not the penthouse, but the building is still fucking ridiculous.

The elevator ride is difficult. After every floor, it pings an indication that he’s that much closer to straddling Steve’s lap and kissing him breathless. Eventually it opens up to a Spartan hallway, with only three doors labeled 1201, 1202, and 1203. The doorman informed him to go to 1202, so he picks that one and knocks.

When Steve opens the door, dressed only in a pair of boxers and a too tight t-shirt, Bucky almost faints.

“Hey,” he says instead.

Steve swallows, his eyes looking up and down Bucky’s body and nods. “Hi.”

They shuffle for a few moments, awkwardly eyeing each other from beneath lidded lashes and accompanied by timid smiles, before Steve huffs and steps aside to hold the door open for Bucky.

He takes the duffle from his shoulder before Bucky can really protest it. “So,” Steve murmurs. “I know it’s kind of, uh, different, but I like it.”

Bucky frowns at him before he realizes he’s talking about the apartment, or rather, the condo. The door opened into a wide, lavishly decorated living room with pieces of modern and a tasteful combination of baroque and renaissance art hanging from the walls. The furniture is all in soft shades of blue, the walls painted an almost eggplant hue.

Resting atop the fireplace on the farthest wall is the single biggest television Bucky thinks he’s ever seen. He kicks his shoes off before stepping into the room, letting his fingertips drift over anything that doesn’t look like it’ll break or be damaged too much.

“Steve,” he breathes walking from one painting to another, coming to rest before something a little more familiar than the rest of the abstract pictures. “Is this one-”

“I liked how you painted,” Steve interrupts.

Bucky spins around to find Steve with his arms folded over his chest, a sheepish twist to his lips. His eyes are focused on something behind Bucky, and he looks almost hesitant. Awkward. It’s so familiar that Bucky can’t help but walk over to him and push a kiss onto his cheek.

He pushes up to his toes and whispers, “It’s okay, I still have the poems you used to write me,” in Steve’s ear.

It earns him a blush and a push, and Bucky lets himself fall onto the couch with a giggle. Steve flops down beside him not a moment later, before he’s wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and tugging him close to his side. Bucky may or may not snuggle in against his chest.

Steve’s breath ghosts over his hair. “Those were terrible,” he says. “I remember trying to find words that rhymed with ‘fuck’ that could be romantic.”

“Oh God, that one was the best!” Natasha had found it in one of Bucky’s boxes and had it framed. It’s a terrible poem, Steve’s correct on that account. But it’s ridiculously and endearingly cute, and Bucky is ecstatic that he’s managed to keep it all these years. “Nat was impressed with your use of canuck and amok.”

He laughs at Steve’s groan and leans up to press a soft, chaste kiss onto Steve’s chin.

When Steve grumbles and strings his fingers through his hair, Bucky outright chortles. Steve shuts him up with a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. His tongue slides slippery hot alongside Bucky’s, teasing and explorative and openly rude with finesse. Bucky plants a hand on Steve’s chest and straddles him, tilting his head and groaning into the kiss when Steve’s hands converge over his ass.

“Fuck,” he breathes, breaking away to kiss at the brush of stubble blooming on Steve’s jaw. “You should be wearing less clothes.” They should be naked and pressed flush together, but Steve seems to get the picture when he pushes Bucky onto the couch and tugs of his t-shirt.

He smirks as he asks, “How about now?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky bites, kicking off his jeans and tugging off his sweater with his free hand. He glares at Steve as best he can with a layer of fabric in his face. “A little less, you’re almost there.”

He hears the distinct snap of elastic and Steve’s sigh before warm hands are tugging his sweater from his arms and pushing him back to the couch. “Hey,” Steve murmurs, ducking down to press a kiss to the side of Bucky’s neck.

Once he can gather his breath he replies, albeit a little dazedly, “Hi.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Steve asks, running his fingers up and down Bucky’s sides. He’s still in his boxers, though they leave practically nothing to the imagination. Steve’s curved long and hard against his thigh, and Bucky has to stop himself from subconsciously licking his hips.

He nods after a moment, but digs his fingers into Steve’s knee. “Are you?” he asks, because if he’s in Steve better be in.

After a beat, Steve bobs his head.

Then, it’s sort of a blur. Bucky figures he threw a leg over Steve’s and climbed into his lap, but how their boxers got off, he doesn’t know. All he knows is the sweet pressure of Steve rutting against him, the slick slide of their skin lubricated only by their leaking cocks.

Bucky’s got a hand knotted in Steve’s hair, and he tugs his head back to mouth at his Adam’s apple, stopping only when Steve’s hands squeeze at his sides. He moves his lips up, nibbling at Steve’s jaw before kissing each corner of his mouth.

Evidently, he’s not quick enough as Steve’s hands slide up between his shoulder blades and push him flush against Steve’s chest, tearing awkwardly loud moans out of both of them. Bucky has a niggling hope that the neighbors aren’t home, but he’ll count his blessings if they don’t complain about the, uh, noise. Bucky groans unabashedly when Steve’s hips buck into his own again, dripping cockhead brushing up against Bucky’s belly.

It’s even more discombobulating when he finds himself kneeling on a downy carpet with his hand teasing at Steve’s balls. But then he glances up at Steve, lower lip sucked beneath angry teeth, a bright flush spreading down his chest, and he can only smirk before he bends down and licks a stripe up Steve’s cock.

Steve tastes… bitter. Beneath the obstructive taste of dick and sweat and semen lies something surprisingly palpable. Like coffee without sugar, or cold pizza, or pistachio ice cream. Steve tastes special, and Bucky makes it his personal mission to devour him.

So, he goes down in the most erotic sense of the word. He laps beneath the crown before widening his mouth and tentatively bobbing halfway before pulling back up and swirling his tongue over the leaking slit. Then, a little more confident, he opens up and bottoms out, nosing at the scraggly hairs at the base.

He can feel Steve’s hand knotting in his hair and holding him tight, but never pressing. He hums around Steve’s girth, brings a hand to rest on the soft skin on the inside of Steve’s wrist as he pulls up and goes back down. Up and down, and up and down, in a quick cycle until Steve’s hands are pushing at his shoulders.

Bucky just bats him away and tugs at the tip until Steve spills hot and fast on his tongue. The bitter almost coffee taste is more potent, and Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as he swallows it down.

When he opens them back up, Steve’s gazing at him with a dazed expression.

He swipes the back of his hand over his lips. “What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Steve just shakes his head with a small smile before reaching his arms under Bucky’s and heaving him into his lap. He presses a light kiss to Bucky’s lips, then the tip of his nose, before reaching a hand between his legs and jerking a couple times. Bucky comes quickly, but he doesn’t care. He just moans and kisses Steve until his heart rate calms back to normal, then settles in against his chest.

It’s only when they’re both sated and limber that Steve kisses his cheek and murmurs, “Nothing,” in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just realized that I'm probably going to need a beta for this thing, and I don't know where else to look besides the readership. If you're interested, you can just send me an ask on [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu/mssg) and I'll respond to you as quickly as I can.
> 
> Thanks for all the nice comments, and thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of a shutter snapping jolts Bucky awake.

The sound of a shutter snapping jolts Bucky awake.

He blinks against the obtrusive sunlight shining from the wide windows, reflecting off of the bright walls and burning holes into his corneas. He rubs at his eyes before grabbing his phone off the floor; it blinks up 10:30 a.m. at him. Sighing, he glances back up to the source of the shutter, blanching when he catches a very attentive six-year-old behind the lens.

She just smiles up at him. “Did I wake you?”

Bucky spares her a wary look before peeking to his side and finding Steve drooling on his pillow. He elbows his ribs, desperate to get out of whatever fresh hell his daughter is insistent upon thrusting him into.

When Steve just mumbles and hugs himself close to Bucky’s waist, his resolve collapses and he faces his doom. “Yeah,” he replies. “What are you doing back, Maggie?”

She just shrugs before pulling her camera back up and taking a picture of his face. “Forgot my camera,” she replies, jumping onto Bucky’s legs and snapping a few pictures of her dad. “I didn’t know you and Daddy had sleepovers.” He’s about to humor her when she lifts a brow and gives him the lewdest smirk he thinks he’s ever seen on someone under sixteen.

All right, he can meet understanding with understanding. “I’m dating your dad,” he mutters, brushing his hair from his eyes. “I used to love him, before you were born.”

It gets something akin to curiosity onto her face. She stirs a little, pushing his legs apart and settling in between his ankles. “Used to?” she asks, sweeping a strand of hair behind her ear. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looked protective.

Hell, she probably is being protective. Children are fucking enigmas.

“Yeah, used to,” Bucky says, settling in for an impromptu story time. “We grew up together. Did your daddy ever tell you he’s an orphan?” He waits until she nods to continue. “Well, so am I. We were best friends, and when I was fourteen, we, uh, kissed a lot.”

“Do you kiss a lot now?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not telling you what I do with your dad,” he says. There’re probably at least forty rules against it and he’s not keen on breaking any of those. “Speaking of, you should probably not be in this room either.”

Maggie just tosses her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. “I always say good morning to Dad.” Her eyes flit to Steve’s still dormant form, his face tucked up against Bucky’s ribs. After a moment she smiles and brushes her fingers through his hair. “Good morning,” she says, then she shifts her eyes up to Bucky. “To you, too.”

He nods and watches as she climbs off the bed and darts out the door. When she’s finally out of earshot, he bends to suck Steve’s earlobe into his mouth. “Hey,” he murmurs, watching goosebumps bloom on Steve’s cheek. “Wake up, your daughter’s here.”

The distinct sound of a door slamming shut alerts him that he should have used past tense. He sighs before correcting, "Was here."

Steve grumbles and rolls onto his back, face the picture of abject disappointment and grumpiness at the impending doom wrought by the sun. Bucky snorts and pats his forehead until he blinks awake. “C’mon, Steve, up and at ‘em, big guy.”

After a few more pats, and plenty of coddling on Bucky’s part, Steve pushes onto his elbows and shoots a glare that could rival Natasha’s in his direction.

It doesn’t scare him one bit. “So,” he says, getting right down to the point. “Maggie’s your alarm clock?”

Steve’s eyes go to his lap before he stretches his arms out in front of him and sighs back into the mattress. “Yeah,” he replies, scratching at the blond stubble on his chin. “Peggy used to wake up with the sun, and I think Maggie inherited that particular nuisance of a trait.”

It’s the first time Bucky’s heard Steve willingly mention his wife/girlfriend/friend he happened to have a child with. He’s almost too curious to keep his mouth shut, but he thinks better of asking the first few questions that bubble to the forefront of his mind.

Instead he asks, “When?”

He can see Steve stiffen. It hurts a little to see the way some absent woman still affects the man, but at the same time Bucky’s comforted by it. She must’ve been a good woman. “Three years ago,” he murmurs. He coughs and rubs at his neck. “She, uh, worked with the government.”

Bucky nods like that makes a shred of sense, then throws his legs off the side of the bed. It feels like all of his joints decide to pop as one when he stands, so he twists back and forth before turning to offer Steve a hand. He heaves him to his feet before pulling him snug against his chest.

“’m sorry,” he mutters, knowing full well that it isn’t even near enough.

Steve kisses the side of his mouth and replies, “It’s not your fault.” His hands slide down Bucky’s back and squeeze at his ass before they trek back up to scratch at his shoulder blades. “We should probably get dressed.”

“Probably,” Bucky replies, thumbing at the muscles on Steve’s stomach. The guy’s a fucking Adonis is what he is, and if Bucky doesn’t get dressed, get _Steve_ dressed soon, they’re going to have a problem. “C’mon, I’ll make breakfast.”

They get dressed in a matter of minutes before making their way to Steve’s bathroom. At which point, Bucky manages to embarrass both himself and Steve with his gawking and half believing questions.

Like, at the size.

He runs his fingers over the gorgeous marble tile mounting every surface of the room. “Jesus fucking Christ, Steve,” he murmurs, peering to the side and finding a fucking hot tub nestled in the corner of the room. No, it’s not one of those cool ass tubs that Bucky always wished he had but an honest to God hot tub.

As if that wasn’t enough, there’s a shower the size of half of Bucky’s bedroom on the opposite side of Steve’s bathroom. It looks like it can pulse water from the sides too, which though intimidating, actually sounds kind of cool. The vanity is Jack and Jill, though there hasn’t been a Jill for a while now.

He has to suck his lip beneath his teeth to stop himself from asking any questions about the anonymous ex.

Instead, he walks over to where Steve is kicking off his new clothes and stepping into the colossal shower. Bucky follows suit, not knowing what else to do in a massive condo inhabited only by a kid and her dad, and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist as he activates some strange misting setting.

And it feels _marvelous_. “Steve,” he moans, slumping against his friend’s body. “This is fucking ridiculous. You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.” The water bombards him from every angle, but it feels too nice for Bucky to care about breathing properly. He just hums his contentment when Steve’s hands slide down his back and knead at the sore muscle.

He outright moans when Steve sighs and slips a finger down his crack.

Steve looks the picture of guilt when Bucky growls over his shoulder, but he can’t help but let it dissipate into a grin. “Find something you like, Stevie?” he asks, knowing full well it’s going to get him a push or a slap to the ass.

When it gets him just that, he smirks even wider.

“You’re damn right I do,” Steve grumbles. “I think your ass is the only thing that hasn’t changed since the orphanage.” He scrubs at Bucky’s back for a moment before spinning him around and planting a soft kiss on his jaw. “You have longer hair now,” he says, sweeping a hand through Bucky’s chin length hair. After a moment of moderately awkward petting, Steve’s lips twist into a smirk. “Your skin is pale white and ice cold. Your eyes change color-.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky mumbles as he nudges Steve’s shoulder. After a moment, he sighs and gives Steve his best mock horror. “Say it,” he says, because if Steve’s going to be an asshole, he’ll be one right the fuck back.

Steve ducks down to press a sloppy kiss to his neck. “Vampire,” he whispers, grin loud in his voice.

“If you’ve written anything like that we’re going to need to end this relationship.”

He can feel Steve’s breath warm his neck when he laughs. “I’ve never written anything romantic,” he replies, sliding his hands around Bucky’s middle and teasing at his belly button. “I write war stories.”

It’s odd enough that it piques Bucky’s curiosity. “But you were never in the military?” he asks more than says because ten years _is_ a long time, and Steve damn well might have been.

“I was for a bit.” Bucky turns in Steve’s arms and peers up at him, intrigued. Steve just looks sort of winded. “It’s, uh, how I met Peggy.” His eyes dart down to their feet, pressed together in the heat of the shower. He wiggles his toes, probably for lack of anything better to do, before his eyes finally meet Bucky’s. “She was my superior.”

“Were you discharged?”

Bucky’s already scanning Steve for any sign of injury, pulling out of his arms to examine his back and the backs of his legs. He only finds smaller scars and little nicks, but there’s a particularly jagged line running between his shoulder blades. It’s rough to the touch, even rougher on the eyes. When Bucky pulls away, Steve lets out a breath.

“During my first and, I guess, my only tour,” he says before Bucky asks. “There was a car bomb, and I protected a friend of mine from getting beheaded by a door.”

Bucky digs his fingers into Steve’s skin. “You could’ve died.”

He waits until Steve nods to soften his hold.

“I could have,” Steve mumbles. “I didn’t.” His shoulders are tense beneath Bucky’s hand, cords of muscle flexed as though he’s preparing to take to the skies with invisible wings. Slowly, he lets his hand drop, trailing his fingers down his spine.

They clean themselves in relative silence, stepping out of the shower in a matter of minutes. Bucky towels himself off, then moves to dry Steve’s hair. Carefully, he tugs his hands away and combs the strands into something resembling a regulation do, pulling Steve’s face level with his own so he can kiss the corner of his mouth.

When he pulls away, Steve’s red as all get out, but he looks… happy? It’s odd, considering the grim nature of what they were talking about, but yeah, that’s definitely a smile pulling at Steve’s lips and definitely a spark in his eye.

“Bucky,” he mumbles, reaching up to tug on the end of a strand of hair that fell into Bucky’s eyes. “Hey, you look like you ate something gross, what is it?”

“Nothin’,” he replies, chewing on his lip.

“C’mon.”

“No.”

Steve sighs, but picks up a brush and tugs his hair back into its normal wave. If he put a shirt on, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that he’s been injured; much less that he’s a veteran. Bucky shifts his weight on his feet for a few moments before groaning and wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist, kissing over the jut of his shoulder.

“So, soldier,” he murmurs. “Wanna make another story?”

It gets him a snort. “Are you serious?”

“Like a heart attack,” Bucky says, kissing up the arch of Steve’s neck. He pauses to suck a bruise into the pale skin, smiling when the bright red stands out, before moving his ministrations to Steve’s jaw. “So serious I think we need to make it as soon as possible.”

And, after an astounding six fumbling attempts, and an elbow to the ribs, they crash at the couch. It’s easy there, to forget that Bucky’s going to have to leave soon, that there’s a real world outside of Steve’s tastefully decorated walls. He lets himself be coddled and loved, lets himself be taken care of, until Steve’s nudging him up and taking him back into the bedroom, sprawling him out wide over the sullied blankets with freshly cleaned skin and come drying on his chest.

Steve flops down beside him a moment later and knots their fingers together.

They breathe in easy, contented silence for a few minutes until Steve hooks a leg over Bucky’s waist and drops onto his elbows above Bucky’s face. His lips are stretched into a wide grin and, to make things even stranger, he wiggles his eyebrows.

“Can I draw you?” he asks, of all things.

“What?”

Steve’s eyes dart to the window, then back to Bucky. “Like I used to, when the Sisters and the other boys weren’t around,” he says.

And then his lips twitch into a smirk, and Bucky can feel all the blood in his body rush to his cheeks. Jesus Christ, he shouldn’t be getting body anxiety after literally having had sex twice with this man in the past hour, but he is.

“Uh,” he replies intelligently.

“Stay here,” Steve says, hopping off of Bucky’s prone form and darting across the room, leg muscles flexing with his pace. He rummages through a drawer, pausing a moment before tossing a notebook towards the bed and returning with a few charcoals grasped in his fist.

Bucky waits as he climbs back onto the bed and settles himself between Bucky’s legs, eyes scanning down Bucky’s middle, pausing minutely over where his cock lays soft in the crease of his thigh, then back up to his eyes.

“You’re good, Buck.”

The room is filled with silence, save for the soft brush of charcoals along paper. Steve’s eyes are set upon the notebook, flicking up occasionally at Bucky’s body, then back to the drawing. Faintly he can hear the sound of taxi drivers honking their horns in the distance, the ever present low mingle of the city despite the airtight windows and locked doors.

It’s ages before Steve finishes, murmurs of ‘almost finished’ and ‘you have the patience of a kindergartner’ keeping Bucky’s peace until Steve’s just thumbing at the paper absentmindedly, low grin creeping over his face as his eyes take in the tenseness of Bucky’s abdominals, the way his legs are set to jump at the slightest provocation.

Finally, Bucky tosses in the rag and makes a grab for the book, catching only the bound spin before Steve’s pulling it away.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, pushing a finger to his lips. He appears to be contemplating something, hand cupping his chin as he holds the notebook high above his head. After a few moments he smiles and says, “What are you willing to do for it?”

“Huh?” Bucky replies, dumbfounded.

Steve rolls his eyes and shuffles up the bed, his arm still behind him, and bumps his nose against Bucky’s. “How much do you want to see my drawing, Buck?” he murmurs, sweet upon his lips.

It’s with little effort that Bucky leans forward and presses his lips against the corner of Steve’s. When he pulls away, he catches the way Steve’s eyes confusedly flutter open, the great breath he draws in surprise. He snorts as he says, “That much.”

Steve just huffs, calls him a tease under his breath.

Sometimes, if Bucky really wants to, he can surprise even the most suspecting people. He learned a few tricks from Nat; sleuth is not exclusive to detectives or spies. She moves with a catlike grace, precise and deadly if she wants to be. Too much risk at her firm deemed she learned self-defense in forms of Krav Maga ,Tai Kwon Do, Karate, kickboxing, you name it. Thankfully, she was compelled enough in her knowledge to share it with Bucky, teaching him how to take down a man twice his size by only squeezing his thighs around their shoulders.

And this time it doesn’t fail him. He wraps his legs around Steve’s waist and tugs him over, then beneath him, grabbing his wrists in his momentary blip of complete shock, and when he’s finally settled against the mattress, he dips down to kiss the tip of his nose.

When he feels the arch of Steve’s erection pressing against his thigh, he attempts a wicked grin and gyrates against it.

“How much,” he says, covering a small groan. “How much would you have me do, Stevie?” He brings Steve’s left wrist to his left hand, drawing his freehand down the side of Steve’s face. “Would you let me touch you here?” he murmurs, sliding the pad of his thumb over his lower lip.

The way Steve’s tongue darts out only sends more blood to his groin, but he opts to ignore it.

“Or how about,” he breathes, slipping his hand down to where Steve’s pulse is hammering away in his neck. “Would you like to be touched here?” As he speaks he ducks down and sucks a mark onto the thumping skin, relishing in the soft pants and breathless squeaks Steve gives.

He pulls away when Steve arches up into him.

“Bucky-”

“Would you like my hands here?” he says, smirking, as he draws his hand to Steve’s pectorals, tweaking his nipple pert with his index finger and his thumb. “Or here,” he breathes as he slides his first two fingers over the trail of hair leading down from his belly button.

He follows his fingers’ trail with his mouth, releasing Steve’s hands when he’s confident he won’t use them to restrain or tease Bucky. He sucks a mark between his collarbones, watching as the angry red quickly blooms into a soft purple. He dives downwards to tongue at a nipple, slicking it hot and glistening then blowing it cool. He watches the muscles in Steve’s  middle tense as he draws down further, lapping at the dip of his belly button, kissing at the hair crowning his cock.

When he finally settles between Steve’s legs, he’s curved red and proud towards his stomach, slick sticky wetness dribbling from his head. Bucky doesn’t hesitate a moment in wrapping his lips around it, tasting Steve’s bitter taste before opening up and swallowing him down.

The way Steve reacts is more what interests Bucky than the actual act of sucking his cock. His thighs tremble beside Bucky, but never wrap around him and draw him near. His eyes are fluttering and opening again, faded blue all but overtaken by the black of his lust. He’s red from hairline to chest, sheen of sweat coating him head to toe.

It’s perhaps a little shameful, Bucky thinks, that he can get hard just from watching Steve get off.

All too soon, Steve’s hips are lifting to meet his lips, warm cock filled to the brim and just waiting to spill. Bucky lets him fuck his mouth a few times before finally spouting his come down his throat, warm and mildly unpleasant, though Bucky doesn’t get the taste.

He pulls off with a slick pop, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. When he’s confident he hasn’t lost his voice, he grins and holds out a hand. “Notebook?”

Steve only nods before slowly making for the book and tossing it Bucky’s way.

His careless demeanor doesn’t prepare Bucky for the drawing at all. Of course he remembers Steve’s skill, but it hadn’t been so… careful. So precise in its handling of details. He captured Bucky in all of his glory, exaggerating the barely visible four pack he sports. He glorifies him in his legs, in his shoulders, his arms spread wantonly across the bed, as though to suggest to the viewer that he’s inviting them to join him. His cock is soft, spent against his leg, but still Bucky knows that he’s not that long, nor that wide.

But really, it’s the face that’s the most unbelievable. Bucky knows he doesn’t sport the wide, innocent eyes as Steve has drawn. Nor is his hair so artistically mussed; he got the stubble right, but Bucky knows he has excellent scruff as it is. The nose is too straight, the cheeks too full. The lips are downright pornographic; the lower, plump one is sucked beneath perfect teeth, smile curling on the edges as Bucky fixates the viewer with what could only be classified as bedroom eyes.

When he glances up Steve’s cheeks are red again, but not from arousal. He cautiously clears his throat, feeling a blush bloom on his own face. “You,” he starts, hating the scratchiness of his voice. Perhaps he should interrogate before impromptu blowjobs. “You really see me like this?” he asks, mindful to keep his eyes on Steve’s hand.

It twitches before he speaks. “You’re the most beautiful thing in the world, Bucky,” he replies, surprising them both if the wide-eyed expression slung over Steve’s face is anything to go by.

“You too, y’know.”

“What?”

“I, uh.” Bucky remarks that he should consider his words more carefully before speaking. “You were always gorgeous, now, back then when you were small enough to carry one armed. You’re the most beautiful person in the whole world.”

Steve’s eyes are closed when he finishes. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and touches the side of Steve’s face. “Stevie?” he asks, hoping to prompt at least a reply.

What he gets is leagues more than he could’ve hoped for. Steve leans up onto his elbows, one hand reaching up to catch the back of Bucky’s head as he pushes his lips onto Bucky’s, insistent but loving. After a few seconds, Bucky settles into the kiss, letting Steve slip his tongue into the seam of his lips and sweep over the lower one before he pulls away. When he does, his eyes are open, and so, so earnest.

“Hey Buck?” he murmurs, quieter than the hum of the air conditioning.

“Yeah?” Bucky replies, equally so.

“I haven’t stopped loving you,” he says. “Not with Peggy, not with the war, and certainly not when you left for school.” He pushes forward to press a softer kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “I don’t think I _could_ stop loving you, even if I wanted to.”

There’s nothing in his expression to suggest a lie, or even an exaggeration. Bucky blinks at him once, then twice, then wraps his arms around him and heaves him up, pressing them together from forehead to groin. He smiles against Steve’s cheek, relishing in the fact that he can finally do this after an absence so long.

“Ditto,” he replies, lamely, but he doesn’t even care. When Steve’s fingers tense on his hips, he sighs and adds, “I’ll always love you too, punk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FIRST THING**
> 
>  
> 
> Holy hell, I haven't updated this in a while. I've been busy with prepping for school, with finishing the edits for my book (!!!), with life in general, and the ever-present business that is laziness. This chapter is a little different than the others in that I've changed writing styles, again, and it's a little more... uh, I don't want to say inspired, per se, but it's definitely written to the tune of Homer; blame neo-classical research. Aside from this, I swear that Peggy and Maggie's story is finally going to get some further input in the next chapter; it'll be told from young Maggie's perspective from watching Steve and Peggy's interactions. The chapter after that will be told under Steve's perspective, about him and Bucky back in the orphanage.
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [queerodinson](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu). If you want to make a suggestion about what's posted or if you'd like to see something separate written, feel free to contact me there. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a very happy birthday to a very happy Lovegood.

On Tuesday, Maggie wakes her dad early.

School’s out for the week; Mr. Barnes, well, Bucky, sent her a couple of books for the break. She didn’t tell him that she already read the Percy Jackson series, and that she already started on Game of Thrones, but she did promise not to tell Steve that he’d given her the series’. On the other hand, it was fun to smile and tell him, “A Lannister always pays her debts,” and watch the surprise wash over his face, but Dad came to pick her up before he could say anything on the topic.

She’s always considered herself smart, for obvious reasons, but aside from that she’s not particularly innovative. She’s just fast, like the man Dad brought her to see when she went on his tour over the summer; Stark? It sounds right. Regardless, he gave her an ‘equation’ that she solved rather quickly, much to both his and Dad’s surprise.

So it goes without saying that she’s quick enough to figure that Dad’s completely smitten with her teacher.

He’s just blinking awake when she throws her legs off the side of his bed and makes her way to the kitchen. On her birthday, she always gets pancakes. Maggie had told him it’s okay for him to stop the tradition now that Mom’s gone, but she doesn’t think he has the heart to. She doesn’t blame him.

“Can we go to Broadway?” she asks as he’s stretching his arms high above his head. “I’d really like to see Mamma Mia.”

“Sure,” he replies under a yawn. He climbs out of bed, big, awkward limbs dangling from his body like he’s not sure what to do with them. Maggie’s going to ask Bucky what he was like before his tour. “Wanna go get the eggs out? I’ll be down in a minute.”

She nods and spins on her heel, ducking out of the room and sprinting towards the kitchen. Her birthday isn’t her favorite day, not by any means, but it’s still nice that her dad makes sure he gets the day off. That, or if he can’t, he sneaks off from work anyways.

The footstool is already nestled beside the fridge, so she grabs it and heaves the door open, climbing up to reach for what she needs to grab.

She’s small; Maggie knows that she gets it from Dad. The other kids are all at least half a head bigger than she is, but she tries not to let her physical impairments get to her. When she gets in a fight with the kids who think that she’s cheating though, she always ends up grabbing the shorter end of the too big stick.

Heck, she’s still got a split lip to prove it.

Grimacing, she grabs the eggs, milk, and butter from the fridge, carefully setting them on the counter before climbing back down. She’s sure to grab an apple from the drawer that’s low enough to reach however, snagging a bite just as she hears her father’s heavy footsteps plodding down the hall.

He smiles at her, pats her head, before grabbing the mixing bowls and going to work on their food. They’re both quiet people; Mom liked to open the windows to the constant flurry of New York background noise. Dad likes soft music to be playing when he writes, but it’s never the stuff that Peggy used to listen to.

She walks over to the dining table, perching herself on her chair and swinging her legs to the sound of her father’s whistling.

“Is Bucky coming over?” she asks.

“Nope, it’s just you and me today, bub.”

“Hmm.”

Truthfully, she’d like it if it were just her and her dad. God knows she doesn’t spend enough time with him, much less time where it’s just them, but still. There’s something subdued in watching her father work by himself, without a reassuring hand on his shoulder or an adoring laugh following something he said; and Maggie knows her dad isn’t very funny.

She huffs before saying, “I wouldn’t mind if he stayed over more often.”

That gets a reaction. Maggie watches his shoulders still, his back goes straight like it used to whenever the phone rang and it was Colonel Phillips on the other end of the line. Slowly, he turns around, facing her with a contemplative expression before sighing.

“Is it obvious?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Is what obvious?” She can play dumb.

He rolls his eyes in a way that suggests he knows she can _play_ but she isn’t. “Don’t be smart with me.” He brushes his fingers through his hair nonetheless. “I, uh, you know I love your mom, right kiddo?”

She nods; it’s obvious with each passing day. It’s obvious in the way he looks at Mr. Barnes with adoration, and then flinches at it. “I know, Dad.” She also notices how he used present tense; she’s grateful for it.

“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes darting from her face to his feet and back again. “But I also love Bucky, you understand?”

“Yeah, I get it.” She hates that, _You Understand?_ She’s not four anymore. “And Bucky’s great, I like him a lot.” She absolutely loves that he can bring that smile to Dad’s face, just like Mom used to. It’s odd how sentimental people are when they’ve thought they lost something.

There’s a tense moment, neither of them speaking or even looking at each other, before Dad breaks out into hysterical giggles and moves back to the batter. “That sounds like something your mom would say, believe it or not,” he says, muffling his laughter with a deep breath.

Oh, does Maggie believe it.

Even without Steve waxing poetic about Margaret “Peggy” Carter, Maggie knows that it isn’t just the name she inherits. Mom was a force to be reckoned with, in love with her work and a country that wasn’t even hers on paper, in love with her family. And Maggie loved her, a lot. But she’s not torn up, well she _is_ but it’s her mother that she died doing what she loved. Dad never got around to telling her just how, but she has her suspicions that it involved her trips that she always came back from so excited and bruised but still absolutely ecstatic.

Even now, after three years, she remembers how her fingers felt combing through the short hair Maggie used to sport. She remembers her telling her to not tell Dad whenever Mom would take her to a PG-13 movie or to a production of Wicked or Les Miserables. She remembers being given her first comic book, her mom’s wide, red painted smile telling her that just because a “sack of misogynistic crap” tells her she can’t read a comic because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she can’t read a comic just as well, mark that, better than any “sacks of misogynistic crap.”

Yeah, even Maggie’s memory tells her she got her mind from Peggy.

But her body; Steve’s big now but he wasn’t always. Even Bucky calls him a shrimp when he comes over, even when Dad’s towering a good four inches over his head.

She wants to see pictures; she wants to know more about who her dad used to be.

But, she can’t just ask those questions. Bucky told her that if she’s curious about anything from the orphanage, she can ask and he’ll answer anything that’s, “safe for work, and children.” She just laughed and walked away, because that was answer enough in and of itself.

What she can ask of her dad, is about her mom.

She waits until the pancakes are finished, until Dad’s setting a four stack in front of her and passing her the butter and the syrup, before asking the first unanswered question that comes to mind.

“What did Mom really do?”

Dad pauses, fork held midair with a commendable portion of pancake gathered at the tip, and fixates her with a curious glance. After a second’s hesitation, he sets it down on the edge of his plate and folds his hands under his chin.

“What about it?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

She waves a hand. “You know, like her work with the CIA.” God, she hopes that guess was correct. When her father smiles, she frowns and goes with, “The FBI?”

“Think British, darling.”

“MI6?”

He nods, lifting the forkful to his mouth and swallowing it down. She waits until he finishes, plucking at her own portion with feigned interest. She glances back up at him from behind her glass when he says, “She was an agent, like the ones you see on television, but _way_ cooler.” He smiles as he speaks. “When I was in Afghanistan, she happened to be between missions. But she was a ranked officer; I wasn’t even a Sergeant at that point.”

“But you are one?” she half asks.

“Yeah, now I am, but back then I was just a specialist. MI6 works a bit differently, but she was more skilled than I will ever be in gathering intel and undermining her opponents. She could take down a regime, if she’d put her mind to it.” And, there’s the first wistful smile.

Maggie nods, but makes no move to continue the conversation. Instead, she focuses on swallowing her food as fast as possible before excusing herself to her room to go get dressed for the day.

Admittedly she retreated. This is why she likes having Bucky around, so he can handle the odd way her dad deals with being sad. Steve has his faults, but self-depreciation is probably his biggest, most noticeable one.

Grabbing a pair of baggy jeans and a Smiths shirt that once belonged to Peggy, she quickly changes and fixes her hair into something resembling decency. When she ducks back into the dining room, she finds that Steve’s cleaned off the table and, presumably, left to go change.

That’s fine, she can wait. Honestly, the best part of her birthday is when they’re too distracted to actually let themselves think about things they’d rather not think about. Maggie’s curiosity makes it easy enough for her, but her dad needs to be interested in something.

It’s part of why she suggested Broadway before anything else.

He emerges ten minutes later, armed in a baggy striped sweater and a backpack filled with the usual things they both need: inhalers, emergency medications, and anxiety and relaxation pills. They have a somewhat unique preparation routine.

“Ready?”

She smirks. “Took you long enough.”

And, their day begins.

They head to the subway, like they always do, and like always, Dad’s recognized by one of his fans and like always, and he stops to thank them for reading his book but tells them he’s out to spend time with Maggie. Sometimes they patronize her, but other times they nod and bid their goodbyes.

“Oh my goodness, is that Will Burnside? It is, isn’t it?” Maggie glances forward and catches the trope of what appears to be tourists, the most excited one looking to be a man in his mid-forties and tugging a much younger man behind him. “Mr. Burnside?”

She tugs on her dad’s hand and nods before ducking behind him, keeping a hand fisted in his shirt as he walks up to the men who’ll likely enjoy a rousing discussion about truth, honor, or patriotism in that order. She listens halfheartedly while her dad dismisses the crowd, then waits in silence for the subway to take them to their stop.

They climb off, and walk the remaining block to Broadway hand in hand, Dad’s intimidating build keeping eyes on them.

Broadway, as always, is extremely crowded, but that’s a part of why they both like it so much. The crowd is grounding, a nice change from the quietude of their home that they’re so accustomed to. They get seats towards the front, and settle in for the show to begin.

And it’s totally awesome.

Maggie doesn’t take much advantage of being a seven year old girl, but this, this being excited and pumped about musicals and dancing and theatrics that she’s allowed is a wonderful thing to take advantage of. She sings along with the performers when she knows a song, bounces in her seat whenever there’s an exciting seat, all the while knowing that her dad would never condescend her just before being excited about something.

“Did you like it?” Dad asks once they’re making their way out of the theatre and into the bustling afternoon street.

She glances up at him and nods, reaching up for his hand and pulling him towards the ice cream shop she knows is across the street. Mom used to take her every other weekend, mostly because she knew that Maggie was smart enough to know that she’d whine until she got her way, but also because she liked the rocket and space decorations the place had.

“ _One day, you’re going to make a great scientist_ ,” she said, about three weeks before she left forever. “ _And you’re going to get a Nobel Prize, my little Curie_.”

Maggie’s never really liked science, if she’s being honest.

They walk down Broadway for a while, aimlessly stopping at shops where Maggie finds something she likes, and Steve offers to buy her anything she asks for. Eventually, they amble upon a bookstore filled to the brim with classic fairy tales and ancient looking hardcovers, and she finds herself enraptured.

“Let’s go in there,” she says.

“All right.”

She pulls Dad into the shop, _ooh-_ ing and _ahh-_ ing at ancient looking covers, the knickknacks and toys gathered around the shop in little clusters. Maggie outright sprints to a wooden train set, held up upon a few piles of assorted books from the Harry Potter series. She stands and runs to a section with Rand and Shelley, classical authors from all over the world, and Maggie decides she found Heaven, here on Earth.

All the while, she knows her dad’s keeping an eye on her, but he’s probably just as enraptured as she is. Sparing a glance behind her, she finds his eyes pinned to the selection of high school typical novels, before he turns and catches her gaze.

When he does, she smirks. “Aren’t you a little old for _To Kill A Mockingbird_?”

“Aren’t you a little young?” he snarks back, quirking a grin. He picks up the book, nonetheless, and tucks it under his arm before following her around the shop.

She ends up with eleven books in total. In the order she deemed most fit, Maggie sought out _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, a new copy of _The Philosopher’s Stone_ , _The Great Gatsby_ under Dad’s recommendation, _Fahrenheit 451_ , _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , a worn copy of the Grimm tales, _The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy_ , _The Hunger Games_ and _On The Road_ , which Dad said to talk about with Bucky when she finished. Apparently it was, and she quotes, “really, freaking sexy.”

Her dad’s biased when it comes to queer lit, but she’ll give him this one.

They head back to Soho after they get the books, only to drop them off and head on to the R-line, only to change to the F-line. Dad says it’s a surprise but Maggie’s aware enough to know that they’re likely going to DUMBO. Maybe if Bucky’s willing, he’ll finally take her on the history tour she’s been trying to get her dad to do, but he won’t because a lot of the places she wants to go could be considered seedy.

Whatever, the punk movement and queer petitions for rights aren’t seedy, they’re important.

She holds his hand when the train veers further underground, buzzing with excitement when it comes to a stop and they climb out of the station. She pulls him along, leading the way through the busy streets and taking in an eyeful of the place she’d more than love to live someday.

Maybe if Bucky and Dad stay together for a while, she can convince Bucky to let her have a room at his place. She hopes so, at least.

They pass old shops and new alike, street musicians mewling about their toiling and broke lives. She pauses to listen to a man with an old style 12-string guitar, talking about a woman named Bettie and her long, long legs as he toots into his harmonica every so often. She stays until the end, and claps with the crowd he earned, tugging on her dad’s pant leg until he puts a fifty into his case.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, smiling at Maggie. She blushes and pulls her dad away, but not before smiling back.

Bucky doesn’t live particularly far into DUMBO, pretty close to Walt Whitman’s old place, actually. Maggie’s sort of anxious about visiting; she’s heard about Ms. Romanoff and she seems equally parts exciting and terrifying. Still, she’s not so naïve as to let fear deter her intent.

Dad squeezes her hand and stoops down to kiss her forehead. “Ready?” he asks.

She nods. “Yeah.”

He knocks quickly, just three times, and it’s hardly a minute before Bucky pulls the door open, hair askew and face half-shaven. He’s not even wearing a shirt, just a pair of ratty plaid pajama bottoms, and he looks the picture of surprise.

When his eyes land on Maggie, he blushes, and she smirks so hard her cheeks hurt.

“Shit,” he says. Then his eyes widen. “Fuck-Ah, dammit, come in. You could’ve called, Steve.” He steps aside and holds the door open, and more light hits the shadows that scattered over his neck and chest. Maggie sees what could only be hickeys bruised here and there, perhaps the most scarring one being the one beside his nipple.

Trying her best to forget the mental image, she turns her eyes onto her toes and waits for her dad and Bucky to finish with their greeting kiss-which isn’t so much a kiss as a full on make out session-before asking about the lawyer.

“Is Ms. Romanoff home?” She glances up at Bucky, who’s giving a truly valiant effort to appear collected even if his face is blotchy with a blush and his lips are bitten swollen. “I’d like to see her, if she wants.”

“Yeah, sure, hang on I’ll be right back.” Bucky smiles and turns the deadlock before sprinting up the two steps into the main room.

Maggie kicks off her shoes and tugs off her jacket before hanging it on the railing post. Her dad follows her example, and they make their way into Bucky’s (and Natasha’s) little house. It’s a lot cuter than she thought it would be, after getting a look at the neighborhood. The walls are painted a deep sea green, with white trim and crown molding. It’s a lot like Bucky’s classroom, actually, with all of the oceanic décor that’s more befitting to a museum about Greek sea mythology than perhaps a class full of seven and eight year olds.

Well, Maggie’s not going to be the one to complain about it regardless.

There are homey touches from another hand as well. Mock up pieces of art from Russian artists, portraits of a woman with shocking red hair and beautiful green eyes in a tutu, leg kicked up high behind her as she laughs away. There are half-finished paintings on easels, the style completely familiar to her. Bucky likes to bring his own pieces in for art demonstrations; he’s pretty good, she’ll give him as much, but he’s into that abstract, new-age crap. Maggie just doesn’t get it.

Of course, until she sees the watercolor self-portrait hung beside a photograph of a blond man with hearing aids standing with his arm around the woman in the other picture. The inscription below it names the subjects _Alianovna & Her Chelovek_. Bucky’s picture captures him in perfect detail, from the grey-blue of his eyes to the pretty blond-brown wave of his hair.

And, well, if Maggie called her teacher pretty she certainly wouldn’t be the first. Heck, her dad’s got her beat.

Pictures upon pictures, posters of risqué movies and foreign books, Russian and Romanian poetry framed high above the furniture, pretty plants and decorative potpourri; the house is little, but it’s definitely more than meets the eye. Maggie can see glimpses of the people who live here reflected on the walls, in the choice in décor, in the smell of something being boiled in the kitchen.

“Huh,” she says.

“That’s what I was thinking,” her dad replies.

They just stand there, unsure of what to do but completely entranced by the entire room, and the soft sounds of someone singing in a different language emanating from the kitchen. Eventually, Bucky emerges from one of the doors at the end of the narrow hallway that leads back from the living room.

He has a shirt on, but much to Maggie’s delight there’s a picture of a mixtape titled, “Awesome Mix Vol. 1” and she can feel herself grinning from ear to ear. When he notices, he stoops to her level and smirks.

“You read the comics?” he asks, grinning. She doesn’t even care that his hair is dripping on her shoulder. “Who’s your favorite?”

“Nebula, obviously.”

“No way, she’s _totally_ evil!”

“That’s why I like her, dummy!”

“But what about Nova? Or Groot, man? God damn, kids these days have no taste.”

She just sticks her tongue out before holding her arms out wide and raising her eyebrows. Okay, of all the perks of her father having her teacher as a boyfriend, the best one is that she already knew him. So it’s not all that awkward for him to just carry her around on his shoulders. Frankly, she’s getting a little old for it, but she doesn’t care. She’s small enough to be a four year old and she cares enough to be a college student.

“Groot does this, y’know. How awesome is Nebula now?” Bucky asks, walking them over to the dining room. Dad follows behind, as though he’s still worried about her falling, but he’s smiling like he always does whenever Bucky and Maggie hang out like this.

“She’s still the best,” Maggie replies. “She’s, like, mostly robot! Groot is just a living tree!”

“Okay fine,” Bucky sighs, pulling her off his shoulders and setting her onto a chair with a couple of pillows stacked on it. “But Rocket is great, you have to know that.”

“Hmm,” Maggie hums in reply, shooting a smile Bucky’s way.

Her dad sits across from Bucky, and Maggie sits across from the still vacant seat at the head of the table. The person in the kitchen, Ms. Romanoff presumably, hollers that she’ll be out in a second but she could use Bucky’s help with the Solyanka. He excuses himself and disappears from the room, leaving Maggie and her dad to stare at the décor once again.

This time, when Bucky emerges, he follows the beautiful woman from the pictures. Alianovna, Maggie’s mind supplies. She smiles down at Maggie when she catches her staring, but when she sees the raised eyebrow, her smile evolves into a smirk.

Oh, she’s _definitely_ awesome.

Solyanka, as it turns out, just ends up being stewed meat. Maggie finishes her bowl quickly, letting Dad and Bucky talk about what they’re doing for Thanksgiving, and whether Natasha would like to come by the Rogers residence with them.

“Nah,” she replies around her second wine glass. “I’m going to the Barton’s; Barney thinks he can beat me at Chess this year but he can’t and I want to show him as much in front of Clint.”

Maybe Clint is her _Chelovek_. Maggie frowns and spears another cube of beef into her mouth before she asks, “Why do you go by Natasha if it says Alianovna?”

They all stop eating to turn and look at her; Dad with the warning twist in his eyebrows that suggests she’s being rude, Bucky with reined in amusement, and Natasha with the barest hint of surprise tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Maggie just stares at them back before sighing and brushing her fingers through her hair, turning her attention back to her food. She’s just popping another bite into her mouth when Natasha clears her throat, and says, “It used to be Natalia Alianovna, fully.”

She frowns for a moment, pretty face marred by two lines between her eyebrows before she huffs a breath. “I’m Russian; well at least I used to be. I changed it so I could leave that behind, and I’m not telling you why with your dad in here.” She gives Dad an eye roll and pats his hand before going on. “There aren’t very many Russian lawyers in this country, so I changed it to Natalie, then Natasha, and from Rushman to Romanoff.”

“Huh,” Maggie mumbles after she swallows. “That’s kind of shitty.”

“Maggie, watch your language.”

She folds her arms across her chest and leans back in the chair, uncaring if it makes her shorter than she is. “But it _is_. She shouldn’t have to change her name just because she wants to do something. It’s like Nora Roberts, or even freaking J.K. Rowling!”

“Sometimes life is kind of shitty,” Natasha says, wiping her lip with a napkin. “And sometimes, people make choices. I made mine, though Clint still calls me Alianovna.” Bucky interrupts to groan and bury his face in his hands. It must be something he’s embarrassed about, Maggie thinks. “But I don’t mind as much anymore.”

Maggie gives her a half-hearted shrug in reply, turning her attention back to poke around at her food.

The chat about for another hour or so, until Bucky slaps his hands down on the table and pushes from his chair fast enough that it clatters backwards and onto the floor. He pays it no mind as he stares straight ahead with a shocked expression.

“Oh,” he exclaims, shifting his gaze to Maggie. “I have your birthday present.”

Without further validation on his part, he grabs his plate and Maggie’s and darts into the kitchen, dropping a few things and murmuring a quick few ‘fuck’s under his breath before his footsteps trail off into the living room and back down the hall.

Maggie just sits through the whole ordeal, trying to figure out how she’s supposed to react when Natasha winks at her from across the table and tells her that she’s really going to like it.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Mm-hmm.”

Bucky comes crashing back in not a moment later with a huge box and an assortment of slightly smaller boxes piled high in his arms. Maggie watches in awe as he sets them down on the table, then grabs her up in his arms and settles her in his lap, giving her the smallest present first.

His voice is teasing when he stage whispers, “I was going out on a limb guessing you liked comics, but I’m glad to know you do.”

With that comment, she tears into the first gift and finds a little Wolverine figurine, claws and all, but with a wildly disproportionate head and cute black button eyes. She gives it an experimental shake before giggling when Logan shakes his head right back.

He hands her another ( _The Wizard of Oz_ ) and then another (fifteen of the Daredevil comics) and then another (a box set of season one of _Orange Is The New Black_ ) and finally he sets the colossal box in her lap and helps her tear it open, eventually batting her away and opening the box for her greedy hands.

In it she finds first, a Ravenclaw cloak. Bucky had said he’d thought if anything, she’d be sorted into Ravenclaw, if not, she’d probably be a Slytherin like him. Secondly, she finds a custom wand, outfitted with a pinstripe Yew handle. The next thing is a box set of all of the movies, including extended director’s commentary and an interview with Jo Rowling herself.

Finally, after she’s hugged Bucky and astounding five times, she pulls out a letter stating her acceptance into Hogwarts.

“You’re not serious,” she says when she sees it, wide eyed and actually jittery with excitement.

“I am totally serious.”

She turns and gives him yet another hug, this time pulling up close and not letting go until his hands are awkwardly patting at her sides. She slides off his lap and walks back to her chair, grinning from ear to ear at the gifts.

After that, the rest of the day passes in a blur. Natasha teaches her how to pirouette, which Maggie learns she’s too uncoordinated to do perfectly. Dad sighs and lets her have one day to cuss however much she wants, but nothing too extreme. Bucky takes her to Whitman’s house, but not inside it, and it’s a lot less amazing than she thought it’d be. He snorts and tells her that’s what he thought when he first moved into the block.

All in all, it’s a fantastic day and an even better birthday. Bucky even tags along on the way home and Maggie giggles when he and her dad swing her in her hands as they walk down the street to the subway.

When they get home they gather around the massive television, huddled under blankets, and marathon first the Harry Potter movies, and then any Marvel movies they can find available on Netflix or HBO. To be honest, the list is pretty limited but Maggie’s still happy.

She thinks her mom would’ve loved the bookstore.

Eventually, when they’re into the first Thor movie, Maggie passes out on Bucky’s chest, trying her best to stay awake but failing.

The last thing she hears before she lets herself succumb to her dreams is a soft, “Goodnight, Lovegood,” in Bucky’s Brooklyn rasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first things first!
> 
> I wasn't really going to make an official announcement or anything but the reason behind Maggie being so smart and so socially inept is that she's autistic. It's probably not going to be acknowledged in the fic, unless I do another chapter from Maggie's point of view which I totally plan on doing because it's fun to write from a genius kid's mindset.
> 
> Second things second!
> 
> Updates have been slow, but that's because of school preparations. School starts in just over a week, so I'll try to squeeze in one more chapter before I'm constantly busy. 
> 
> Third things third!
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu).


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